Homecoming
by Plead the 5th
Summary: It's the fourth night since he's really gotten any sleep. Dean is in that state beyond tiredness, where he sees sound and hears light. He feels like he shouldn't be driving, but he likes watching Pink Floyd albums play out on the Impala's windshield.


_Hello!_

_I've been hooked on Supernatural fanfiction for quite a while and have been aching to write a story of my own. However, I didn't think my normal writing style would be conducive to a fic. I attempted a few stories, but they felt so forced that I folded and let my true rambling, fragmented-sentence voice run rampant. So, I hope you enjoy my attempt!_

Dean wakes and doesn't know why. Something must be wrong. Something is always wrong when he finds himself jumping up into darkness. His knife is in his hand before he's even aware of his own consciousness and he is frozen in a fighting position, trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

It takes him a moment to realize what's wrong. Silence. Complete and suffocating. No breath besides his own. He scrabbles for the bedside light and narrows his eyes against its sudden glow. The bed to the other side of the table is empty and Dean tenses. Then relaxes as he notices the note bathed in lamplight.

_Am safe. Will contact later._

_-J_

Dean crumples the thin paper in his hand, then smooths it out, reads it again. If he weren't so angry, he would laugh at the absurdity of it. Their lives are never safe. And that second sentence, _will contact later_. Dean knows what his father actually means—_don't contact me_.

Even the signature is a colossal joke. Not dad, not John, just a single letter. Dean knows his father, knows it's a sign, that his dad was scared of the message being intercepted. Dean knows what he should do, knows he should burn it, tear it to shreds. But instead he slips the wrinkled paper into his pocket.

Because Dean knows his father. He really does. But even so, he can't help hoping there's something he missed. Some more writing in invisible ink, a few words to explain why his dad up and left in the middle of the night. An apology, maybe. That would be nice.

Dean glances at the motel clock, sees 4:23 reflected in bright red numbers. Great. He lies back down because he's fucking frustrated and fucking tired and doesn't know what else to do.

But the room is too quiet and he's thrown back a year, back to months and months of sleepless nights. Months and months of waking up with a knife in hand. Of missing the soft snoring and rustling he had never even noticed before. And now, now when he has finally grown used to just two heartbeats, he is going through all that again.

Thanks, Dad. Really.

Dean closes his eyes and waits for exhaustion to catch up with him, to drag him under. Because he's really fucking frustrated. Because he's really fucking tired. Because he really doesn't know what else to do.

•••

Morning comes and Dean sleeps in late because he wants to put off the inevitable. Waking up, that is. Waking up, which requires action and decisions and plans and a whole host of other things he just doesn't want to deal with.

Thanks, Dad. Really.

He sneaks a peek at the clock through heavy eyes and the afternoon stares right back. 12:30. Shit.

He has to be out of the room by 1:00 or pay for another night. And either option requires him to get up and _do_ things. So, pretty much screwed no matter what. Damned if you don't, damned if you don't. Dean grits his teeth and prepares to _do_ because he really doesn't like the thought of all that damnation.

Getting dressed, getting breakfast, packing up his gear. These are all easy things, things he's done his whole life. These should be easy things. Except that Dean tiptoes into his jeans, grabs two glasses of orange juice, looks for weapons that are no longer there.

Any other man may miss his father. But any other man isn't goddamn handsome, doesn't wear leather jackets and isn't about to hop into a Chevy Impala. Dean is not any other man. He's stronger, he's better, and he's pretty much awesomer in every way imaginable. So he doesn't miss his father. Doesn't even think about him.

Dean gets dressed, gets breakfast, and packs up his gear. And it's easy. Really, really, fucking easy.

The Impala rumbles into wakefulness much quicker than Dean did and he stares straight ahead. Doesn't even look to the passengers seat. Doesn't even consider it.

He pulls out of the parking lot and is suddenly struck with the hilarity of the decision facing him. Right or left. What does it even matter? When has it ever mattered?

Dean feels like he should care about what direction he's heading in. He really does. But he can't, has never been able to bring himself to. It's something in his blood, something in his childhood.

Dean mentally flips a coin. Left wins. So Dean goes right because that contest was totally rigged. And no way does he condone that kind of thing.

Metallica screams through the tape deck and he thinks that there was never anything better than classic rock from a classic car. Thinks there was never anything better than driving down the highway alone. No one to get between him, his baby, and his music. Dean breathes deep, smiles to himself.

Life is good. Really, really, fucking good.

•••

Three days go by. Dean knows it's three because that's how many hotels he's stayed in alone so far. He knows it's three because that's how many nights since he's really gotten any sleep. Three days and he still doesn't know what to do with himself.

He can't even relax on the road anymore. Can't let his mind drift without his eyes starting to close. Even when he feels more awake, he still can't relax. Because if he removes his focus, even for a couple of minutes, he always ends up on the same path.

Dean's internal GPS has never worked well. And now it is most definitely broken beyond repair. Because it is determined to send him to California. Determined to send him to the last place he wants to be right now, to the last person he wants to see. To the only person he's more pissed at than his dad.

Dean is winning, though. He's traveling further and further east, ignoring all those voices in his head screaming at him. Ignoring his body's instinctive need for closeness, for… no one. Dean doesn't need him. Doesn't need anyone. He's fine. He's good.

He avoids the hunt like a professional, steering his gaze from newspapers, steering his car from small rural towns. Because Dean has a lot of experience with these things, and he knows those small rural towns are always where the weird shit goes down. That's why Wisconsin has a million and one hauntings—all those teeny farm towns. Or maybe supernatural beings just like good cheese. Either one.

So, California and Wisconsin. Those are the places he needs to get away from. And, luckily, they're big immobile hunks of land while Dean is free to go wherever he wants. Expect California. Or Wisconsin. Can't go there.

It's the fourth day because that's how many nights since he's really gotten any sleep. Dean is in that state beyond tiredness, where he sees sound and hears light. He feels like he shouldn't be driving, but he likes watching Pink Floyd albums play out on the Impala's windshield. Likes the little shakeups to his world. It makes him feel like change isn't too hard. Maybe if he never sleeps again, things will never be the same again. And wouldn't that be perfect?

It's the fifth day because that's how many nights since he's really gotten any sleep. And it's the last night where he won't really get any sleep, because things are catching up to him.

Dean asks a crying woman if he can do anything to help, and isn't that the dumbest thing he's ever done? It's like he's opened up his arms, opened up his mouth, screamed _give me a hunt _to the clouds.

So Dean checks into a motel, forces himself to sleep. Because going into a hunt in his current state is suicide. And he's much, much too pissed to die.

But then something else catches up to him. Dean opens the door at a tentative knock, hides his gun behind his back, because he discovered a long time ago that cleaning maids really don't enjoy having a muzzle in their face.

He opens the door. Thinks he's still seeing music.

Because this cannot be right.

"Sam."

_What do you think? Should I continue it? I have a few more chapters sketched out in my head..._

_There will be more dialogue and action later. This chapter is written so dreamily partly because that's how I write and also because Dean's sleep deprived for most of it. And as us constantly sleep deprived people know, time moves a little differently._

_Bye!  
_


End file.
